Veni, Vidi, Venti

I don’t like Starbucks. Long have I said that I will do everything in my power to avoid going there for coffee. But, unfortunately, now I do.

Of course, one of the main reasons for my dislike is the mesmerizing ubiquity and uniformity of its outlets. They really are everywhere, and they really are all essentially the same. I walk through the same neighborhoods week in and week out and I swear that there are new ones popping up all the time. This is more than just standard growth of a enterprise that found a niche. This is a blanketing of blah.

They don’t seem to be built either. It’s almost as if a new one simply cleaves from another—a sort of mitosis, only instead of cells its coffeeshop clones. And it’s spreading-- did you know that there is now Starbucks in Bejing’s Forbidden City? So, where once hardscrabble commoners of China couldn’t even enter, fanny-packed Floridians can now complain about how their no-foam mocha isn’t “skinny” .

The reason that this once small company is now so huge is that people love Starbucks--and their loyalty isn’t easily shaken. I remember walking by a shop near Bryant Park on 42nd Street. It was truly tiny—I would say only about 200 square feet. And every day there would be at least 20 people in there, a line of the latte-starved snaking through the place. People backed against walls just so others could get through the door, some people so cramped that they were stirring in their sugar on their tiptoes. It got me wondering—what would you do if you were a claustrophobe hooked on Frappacinos?

I’m just like these people though, in that I love my coffee in the morning. And while I’d love to stand up to the giant corporate monolith by not giving it my custom, Starbucks is right there on the corner (most corners, actually). They are open very early in the morning (a requirement of a good coffeeshop) and amazingly in some cases, very late at night. The people that work there are usually efficient and almost always friendly and helpful. The coffee--while not the best I’ve ever had--is definitely better than average, and unlike many places in the city they don’t charge you full price for a refill. So, there are no practical reasons to avoid going there—just my disdain for its unchallenged reign over caffeine-dom.

In the end, quixotic notions have been trampled by pragmatic self-interest. I need coffee, and Starbucks is the best option--so I go to Starbucks now. But from the ashes of my defeat as a Starbucks denier, arises a new form of resistance: insolence. I will not obey the Starbuckian code. And, as I expected, there is a so-called “barista” who wants to make me.

Starbucks has these annoying terms for their sizes. Tall, Grande and Venti. Screw that, because that’s stupid. I’m not doing it.

“Good morning, can I have a medium coffee please.”

The mousy barista is flustered, her eyebrows furrowed behind circular glasses. “You mean… Grande.”

“Just a medium coffee, please.” I stand firm. I wonder, is she trying to recall what ‘medium’ means?

Eventually, she got me my coffee. I went in again on a different morning. She was waiting.

“Hi, can I get a coffee please, and can I get it with soy milk?” Soy’s a might more agreeable to me than regular milk, so I choose it when it’s available.

“You mean a café meeeesto?” Was she trying to indoctrinate me, or was she just really fond of pretentious names? I almost wanted to ask her for a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, just to see if she said “ You mean a Croissant with Preserves and Legume Spread?”

“You can just give me soy milk, and then I’ll put in inside of the cup of coffee that you give me.”

Okay, I wasn’t that condescending, but I might be eventually. I might even go in there one day and ask “Can I get a steaming cuppa Joe?” or “I like my java hot as lava, sweetheart.” And who knows… over time, maybe I’ll learn to like Starbucks. In the meantime, I’ll take my small personal victories with a warm cup of meeeeesto served by my bareeeesta.

Observations on a day in NYC

I was charged a service fee while buying a concert ticket at a box office. I am assuming the service was in actually handing them to me.

Sometimes moths can be so stubborn, even when you’re trying to just help them get out the window. I kept thinking to myself, you can fly around that lamp all you want, it won’t save you. But I can. Simply alight on this paper towel, and you’re as good as free. Can’t you see that?

The guy that was screaming to himself on the subway was wearing socks with flip-flops. I had an urge to tell him that this was not the way it was usually done, but since he was screaming in another language, I didn’t think he’d understand me.

There are advertisements all over the subways about Jerry Orbach, the late actor, who donated his eyes after he died. It says that “his greatest role was that of eye donor.” Did Jerry know they were going to say that? I thought he was pretty good as the dad in Dirty Dancing.

Turkey sandwiches can soothe, making you forget all about the injustices of modern ticket surcharges.

Rudy’s is still the best bar in NYC until someone proves otherwise.

The Ballad of Pacman Jones

Adam Jones is a talented NFL defensive back. His nickname is Pacman because as a child he used to drink milk with the voracious aplomb of the video game character. But this is not what this story is about.

This story is about the Pacman of right now.

Last year, Pacman showed loads of promise both as a cornerback and as a return man. Pacman was making money in great amounts. The world looked bright and limitless. Chomp Chomp Chomp Chomp.

But things were not as bright as they seemed. For Pacman, as a grown up, had turned his documented appetite from milk to strippers, gambling, brawling and disorderly conduct of various kinds. This, unfortunately, has left him on the wrong side of the law. Six times in the last two-plus years. Despite is obvious talents and far-reaching potential, the ghosts seem to be emerging from the box at the center of his soul. Chomp, chomp, wah-wah-wah.

In addition to his six arrests, Pacman has been questioned by police in five other cases, and have said they are interested in talking with him about a June 18^th shooting in Georgia. So, there are twelve cases in which Pacman is either accused of breaking the law (in some cases, to the grievous injury of others—one incident in Las Vegas left a person paralyzed) or of being around when a particular law was broken.

Given this list of a dozen unfortunate incidents, the NFL saw fit to discipline Pacman (aware as it is of the power its players have as role models). Prior to meeting with the Commissioner of the NFL—the most important meeting thus far in his professional life—Pacman went to a strip club, the scene of several of his incidents. The NFL suspended him for the whole season. It was an unprecedented action, but then, being arrested six times in two years carries very little precedent itself.

So, Pacman will be sitting out this year, and has said he is committed to proving that he deserves another chance. He has demonstrated that commitment by agreeing to wrestle for the Total Nonstop Action—that’s TNA—event “Hard Justice”, in potential violation of his contract with the NFL. The following are quotes taken from Pacman’s statements about the start of his wrestling career:

On wrestling:

"I don't know what you all want me to do. Just sit in the house and be miserable all day? I can't do that. I have to keep my spirits up high. I have a whole family to take care of."

Speaking for the world, I would like to say that we never wanted Pacman to sit in his house and be miserable all day.

“I haven't been arrested six times. I've only been arrested twice. I've been accused and people have put warrants out on me numerous other times, but as of today I'm on no probation, I haven't been charged with anything, so I'm just keeping my head up and make sure I'm doing everything to make sure I'm all right with myself."

Records appear to be at odds with Pacman, but he seems to be on top of the difference between ‘arrests’ and ‘warrants’.

To be fair, Pacman has said that he has spent some time at the Boys and Girls club, and has helped to build a home for a Nashville police officer that is paralyzed. He is apparently trying to get back on top. And for those doubters, for those that don’t seem to understand his inexplicable behavior?

"You don't know me ... Nobody knows me ... misunderstood. Nobody knows who I am. A player, a gamebreaker, a risk taker, a man.”

Adam Jones is a risk-taking, game-breaking man--just trying to salvage his very tenuous, multi-million dollar career while balancing court and wrestling appearances. Adam Jones is just a man. Just a man trying to get a pellet in this world, while trying to outrun the many inky and blinky ghosts that follow him still.

Wait.... which Big Ben?

Sometimes, news headlines can be interpreted different ways.

For instance, when you think your quarterback has gotten busted for drugs, when actually one of the world’s most recognizable landmarks is merely getting fixed.

Big Ben’s Bongs Silenced for Repairs

Seriously, my heart skipped a beat.

Okay...

Today's much better. Plus, this little nugget from Overheard in New York started my day out with an audible laugh. Homelessness isn't funny, but this is:

Son: I'm thinking of an animal now.

Mother: Does it live in water?

Son: No.

Mother: Does it live on land?

Son: No.

Mother: Does it live in the air?

Son: No.

Mother: Does it live in the subway?

Son: Yes.

Mother: Is it a rat?

Son: No.

Mother: I give up.

Son: It's a homeless person.


www.overheardinnewyork.com. check it often. a great break from the day.

one of those days.

It’s cliché, really. “It’s going to be one of those days.” But today is one of those days.

It started in my small bathroom this morning as I was getting ready for work. I knocked over my electric toothbrush with the medicine cabinet door. It fell on the floor. In frustration, I picked the toothbrush up. As I stood up, I banged my head on the towel rack. Hard. Jaw-rattling hard. I was angry. If towel racks were people, I’d have given it a piece of my mind.

With a big ol’ bump on my head and a grumpy cloud above it, I left my apartment and made for the subway. Today, however, the subways were not running. Torrential rains had flooded the town, and the subways were at a standstill. The throngs waiting for a downtown bus were laughably large—the one in Columbus Circle was probably near 100 people. So, I decided to walk.

As I have alluded to previously, I like walking. Given a reasonable opportunity, I’ll walk almost anywhere. Today, is not reasonable though. Today is hot and muggy like you would not believe. And 80 blocks is 80 blocks.

Sweat stains were like a fashion accessory out there as I made my way down 9^th Avenue. Before long, the sidewalks grew more crowded with people doing the same thing I was doing—walking to work. It soon became like a traffic jam—impatient people trying to find open lanes, and nearly running into people with an irritated huff. People were yelling imploringly into their phones “I’m trying to get there! Just start the meeting without me….” The heat and confined spaces were like Miracle-Gro to my budding misanthrope.

Sweat dripping down my already sodden back, I looked up at the street signs. I was approaching… gasp…. Midtown. Midtown is, to me, like purgatory. It’s insanely crowded. I go there, generally, on my way to somewhere else. And when I’m there, I want to go somewhere else as soon as possible. The main difference is that I don’t really care where I go, as long as it isn’t in Midtown.

I kept walking, kept sweating, and sweaty people kept walking into me. I eventually made it down to the cozy and quiet West Village, where I calmed a bit and slowed my pace. I wound through quiet streets in the shade, and my mood improved slightly. But my head still throbbed.

Finally, roughly an hour and a half later, I arrived at work. So, how do I bounce back from this? How do I reach up and pull the sun down through the gloomy clouds? How to I turn the frown upside down?

I don’t. I rub my sore head, ride out this cliché, and hop on the next one: “Tomorrow’s another day.” Because I know it’s true. But if someone actually tried to say that to me today, I’d probably beat them over the head with a towel rack.

Have a nice day!

Grady's Goin' Global

For those of you that don’t know, my buddy Grady has embarked on a year-long journey that will take him across this country and around the world. He’s half way across the country now, and will be leaving next month for the international leg that will take him to some spectacular places. Places like Bhutan. And Tanzania. And Timbuktu.

For a jolt of vicarious wandering to get you through the day, check it out. It's good readin'.

Loosed

I know Doozers. I used to watch Doozers. Sir, you are no Doozer.

I have seen them before, but this time I really saw them.

On the platform at a subway station—I believe it was 14^th Street—I saw these small statues. They were bulbous little brass characters. These things reminded me of Doozers, the hard-workin' little dudes from the show Fraggle Rock that was on when I was a kid. You had to love the Doozers. They didn’t talk; they just went about their day building complex, seemingly unnecessary structures. Cruelly, the Fraggles themselves would eat the structures that the Doozers built. But the Doozers kept building, indomitable.

So, at first I liked these little metallic statues, with their round heads and bodies. They were Doozers. Doozerish, at the very least. As I looked around, I could see they were spread throughout the platform--in no discernible pattern—in what seems to be a morality tableau about money.

There was one lobster, with a money bag for a head, which was crushing two children in its claws. Another guy just smiling and holding a money bag, and one big guy handing a coin to a very little guy. But this one was the one that intrigued me.

A Monopoly-looking Doozeroid lying on a pile of money (granted, they are pennies—but this amount of money might be a lot to a Doozer), with a lady sitting on top of him. She’s casually reading a book, he’s stretched in supine surrender (or maybe he’s unconscious). What really grabbed me was its somewhat lurid undertones.

If they made Scarface with Doozers, this looks like it would be a scene from it. Money. Sex. The only thing they are missing is few lines of coke. Is she reading the Kama Sutra, for God’s sake? These were not my Doozers: the Doozers of reticent industry. I mean, is this the kind of scene that children need to see on the subway platform? Rotund brass figurines partying like pop stars?

I will admit that it’s almost as creepy to see some dude on a subway platform taking pictures of lasciviously-posed metallic statues.

When in doubt, wag.

At my new job, my boss seems to bring his dogs in on occasion. They are both golden retrievers, and their names are Gus and Sandy. Gus is the younger of the two—bouyant and breathy, often overwhelmed with joy at the mere presence of something to sniff. Sandy is a bit older, more pensive, better behaved and apparently more interested in my morning sesame bagel.

First of all, I love the concept of having dogs in the workplace (this hasn’t happened since I worked at a bar in Key West). It just makes the whole environment more comfortable. Without meaning to, dogs put things into perspective.

As I walked in on Friday morning, Gus and Sandy greeted me with trademark canine glee--their tails flying back and forth with the speed of windshield wipers in a Nor’easter. I really don't know if we humans are ever as happy as dogs are when someone (usually their owner) arrives at the door--it's as if they don't know what to do with themselves. Lacking any other alternatives to show their suffocating happiness, dogs wag their tails. Hard. Sometimes they shake their butt back and forth--wagging alone isn't enough to express their rapture. Anyway, I know many people that are greeted by this when they come home from work, but not many who receive such a regal welcome when they arrive at work. It's nice.

At intermittent points throughout the day, Gus nudges my elbow while I am working at my desk. I turn around I see him with a blue ball in his mouth. He huffs playfully, a bull ready for the charge, tail still wagging. Later, he comes by with a tousled, stuffed bear in his mouth--as if he is mining for my preferences in play. Again, his breath quickens. Given an impending project deadline (and a trenchant desire not to have my hands smell like dog breath), I don’t latch on—but for a second I look back and forth from the screen to the bear. I want to wrestle, but I pet him instead.

At breakfast and lunch, Sandy stands sullenly by my desk, watching and waiting. He’s staring at my food like it’s a treasure; as if its so beautiful it might make him cry. I don’t give him any food, but I want to. I put my hand on his head, and start scratching behind his ear. Dogs like that.

My new job isn’t all that stressful, but I’m still learning and have to meet pretty tight deadlines. So, there are times when I am wound a little too tightly. But when there’s a dog snorting next to you with a blue rubber ball or a sad, my-kingdom-for-your-bagel-scraps face, you can’t take what’s on your computer screen too seriously. You can’t take anything too seriously, actually.

I'm sure as I get a little more comfortable in my surroundings there, I'll have even more fun with Sandy and Gus. I'll tug at Gus's bear, and maybe Sandy'll do tricks for a bite of bagel. For now, I'm just happy that I work at a place where I'm learning things I want to learn, moving in a direction I want to move, and have a dog to pet occasionally.

Happy in the human way, yes.... but if I did have a tail, it'd be wagging.